Trumpets

He is eighteen now. Too old for fairytales and make believe. But Henry will always believe. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, as Regina’s breathing has just begun to even out again, Emma will stare wistfully out the window, the stars bright against the wide expanse of blackness, and she will wax on about the gentle way Henry gazes at his mother, the way the world (cruel and bleak as it may seem sometimes) has not taken Henry’s will to believe, to trust, to love. How he was always their hope, their guiding star.